


Lux Angelorum

by syrupfactory



Series: Heaven & Earth [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Honeymoon, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Picnics, Post-Canon, Reviews, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: On the heels of their wedding ring exchange in Regent's Park, Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy lunch—and the honeymoon suite—at the Ritz. Afterward, they decide to take a proper honeymoon and travel to Venice together. Heaven and hell conspire to ruin their holiday, though, with a last-ditch attempt to split them up: offering Aziraphale archangelship. When Aziraphale doesn't immediately refuse the offer, Crowley is more hurt than either of them realize... And some wounds can only be healed with love. Fortunately, Aziraphale has a lot to share.





	Lux Angelorum

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be reblogged on tumblr (with graphic) [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/186735339378/lux-angelorum-aziraphalecrowley-6k-words)!

_ Thanks to [daryshkart](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/188217065059/second-illustration-for-the-heaven-earth-series) on tumblr for creating this gorgeous commission! _

Aziraphale can’t stop watching Crowley’s hands while they have lunch—well, the left one—and he can’t stop smiling because they’re _married_ like a couple of _ humans_. And not only that, but they really just sent a squad of angels and demons home with tails between their legs thanks to the power of their _ impenetrable force field of love_. 

He chokes on a sip of champagne when a laugh slips out. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Pardon me,” Aziraphale says, dabbing his lips. “I just can’t stop thinking about. Hmm. About seeing Gabriel trip over his own feet.”

Crowley laughs out loud. “Yeah, that was pretty good. Although, you telling everyone to fuck off was definitely my favorite part.”

Aziraphale offers a humble shrug. “I have my moments.”

“Indeed.” 

Crowley takes his hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing just above Aziraphale’s ring. The touch is enough for Aziraphale to feel a rush of Crowley’s radiant love, warm and silky with desire. 

“Oh my,” Aziraplahe mutters, clearing his throat. “Do you suppose … do you suppose that honeymoon suite is ready for us?”

“Not yet. You were going to order dessert. Don’t let me rush you.”

Their hands are still joined, and Aziraphale knows Crowley can feel how much he wants him—can feel how much his own desire is responding to Crowley’s—so he also knows he wants to see him come a little unglued. 

Well. Two can play that game.

“Ah, dessert,” Aziraphale says, feigning consideration, “Yes, I think I know just the one. Given that it’s our wedding day.”

“Whatever you like,” Crowley replies, maybe only half-suspecting the answer. 

Aziraphale leans over, as though he’s sharing a secret. “Consummation.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to choke on his champagne. “You know what? I think our suite _ is _ready.”

“Ah! Splendid. Impeccable timing.”

///

Crowley whistles to see their room in person—overly ornate and stuffy for his taste, but perfectly suited to Aziraphale. 

“And I thought the restaurant was posh—” 

Crowley’s sentence is cut short by Aziraphale pulling him into an urgent kiss. He’s happy to respond in kind, their love flowing at full force in a continuous loop and swiftly engulfing them in a literal glow. Crowley kisses a trail down Aziraphale’s neck, enjoying the way his husband’s breath hitches, enjoying the thought that it’s really just the two of them now, on their own side. 

Just then, their clothes vanish. Completely. Crowley pulls back in surprise, raising his eyebrows.

In reply, Aziraphale just resumes kissing him, now with more fervor, and Crowley’s amusement vanishes. There’s a shift in the air, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Aziraphale has let his wings out. 

“Oh,” Crowley says, surprised again, “but _ I'm _the romantic one?”

Aziraphale smiles, eyelids a little heavy. “It feels right, doesn’t it? I’ve long imagined…”

He trails off and they’re kissing again. Crowley lets his own wings out, wondering why Aziraphale has waited until now to mention it. 

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes glistening. “So beautiful.”

Crowley sees—and feels—how much it means to him and lets his forehead rest against Aziraphale’s, their wings curling toward each other and cocooning them as their glow holds steady. He understands, abruptly, that this is how they met, and now they’re here six thousand years later, unwaveringly devoted to each other, and yes, it does feel right. 

Pulling back, Crowley kisses him once more and then whisks him over to the plush bed. Before Crowley could share his love directly, when he could feel Aziraphale’s but not answer it, he’d used words in their intimate moments, pouring out his heart through whispered strings of praise and love, in so many languages, which Aziraphale had always responded to in kind. He doesn’t need words now, as their love literally mingles and mixes and echoes, but they still come to him at times, like small bursts of prayer falling from his lips and into his angel husband’s ears. They are laughing together at times and weeping at others and moving with hungry haste and then idly savoring, enjoying joining their bodies, basking in the other’s pleasure, round in circles, neither paying any mind to anything other than this. 

When they’ve reached something like a resting point, a full day has come and gone. Crowley has a single white feather between his fingers, idly stroking it, when he wonders aloud. 

“Could two angels have this? What we have?”

It was him being a demon that delayed their connection, at first. Angels wouldn’t have the same roadblock, presumably. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asks. “Oh, I suppose in theory. But highly unlikely for two of them to form a private personal commitment. To show favor to someone over all others. To fall in love.”

Crowley hums in reply. “Too self-serving.”

“Perhaps. But mostly just … too human.”

“Their loss,” Crowley says, planting a kiss on his shoulder. 

“Indeed,” Aziraphale laughs. “That was transcendent. I think my toes are permanently curled.”

“I should have known you’d be the _ insatiable _one.”

Crowley expects a bashful reaction, even after everything they’ve done, but instead, Aziraphale just laughs again, from low in his chest. 

“Well, I can hardly dispute that,” he says, turning and running a finger down Crowley’s nose. “I’ll never get enough of _ you_.”

Crowley leans over and kisses him. “Lucky me.”

They lie in bed for a while, dozing in and out. Sometime later, Crowley awakens to find that rain is falling outside, his husband sleeping peacefully beside him, chest rising and falling. And nothing in the universe or heaven or beyond could ever have anything on this moment. 

///

Azirpahale awakens to find himself alone in bed, the last whispers of an unpleasant dream mercifully evaporating. He’s never made a consistent habit of sleeping, and bad dreams don’t do much to sway his choice. Glancing over, he finds Crowley gazing out one of the room’s long windows, bathed in an ethereal glow. He looks as exquisite as a painting. 

Aziraphale just observes him for a moment in silent awe, and then without meaning to, he chuckles to himself. 

Crowley looks over, eyebrows raised. “Something funny?”

“Hmm, nothing,” Aziraphale muses, climbing out of bed to stand near him. “Just admiring my _ husband_, who happens to look positively stunning at the moment.”

Crowley smirks in a vaguely flustered way that’s absurdly charming.

“Well… Don’t let me interrupt.” 

Aziraphale embraces him, then, kissing his bare chest, and Crowley’s arms encircle him. 

“Oh…” Crowley remarks with sudden concern to feel the small tinge of sadness that’s apparent in Aziraphale’s flow of love. 

He pulls him into a tighter embrace, his own love naturally responding to the blemish and filling it, easing it out, until there’s no trace, and Azirpahale’s love is pure and strong again. Aziraphale sighs with content. They’re getting better at feeling those subtle changes in each other, now that they can connect like this, and he’s grateful that they have the ability to care for each other in this way. 

“Alright?” Crowley asks, touching his cheek. 

“Perfect,” Aziraphale says, realizing he needs to elaborate lest Crowley think something about their time here has disappointed him. “Just an unpleasant sort of dream, that’s all.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows.

“Not the prophetic sort,” Aziraphale clarifies. 

Crowley looks unconvinced but doesn’t press. Aziraphale is being too vague, he realizes. The only reason the sadness would show up in their exchange is obvious: The dream was _ about _Crowley. He can’t have him thinking he’s keeping something from him. 

“More of a memory, really,” he goes on. “Back in the sixteenth century. The French Revolution. Crepes, remember?”

Crowley smiles. “Of course I remember.”

“Only, being that I was dreaming,_ I _could remember all this,” Aziraphale goes on, idly taking Crowley’s hand. “And so I tried to tell you not to worry, that everything would work out for the best. I tried to … well, embrace you. You didn’t like that. And I told you that in a few more centuries we’d be married, even, and you … laughed at me. That’s really all of it. Entirely ridiculous for it to have affected me at all, I know. I promise I’m fine.”

Crowley glances back out the rain-speckled window, thoughtful. A quiet moment passes before he speaks.

“That meal we had together in 1793 was one of the best days of my life. If you had hugged me, I would have been over the bloody moon, alright? So, yeah, I’d say your dream was rather ridiculous.”

They kiss again, bright love flowing in a blissful circuit. Aziraphale realizes belatedly that Crowley’s was warped with light concern before, and now that has also subsided. They stay there for a while, holding each other in the soft glow of the gray London sky. 

///

** _One Week Later_**

It’s not that Crowley _ dislikes _working at his music counter in Aziraphale’s bookshop. “Working” is a strong word for what he does most days, anyway—mainly he just stares out the window, or wastes time on his phone, or chats with the occasional customer about music and then leaves them confused by handing them albums with no charge. 

He didn’t _ hate _any of it. It was just that most of the time, he was pretty bored. But then Aziraphale would smile and wave at him from across the shop, and he’d feel bad for feeling bad, while wishing he was as skilled as his partner at occupying his downtime. 

But he isn’t. And after six months of really trying to make this work, he’s going to have to make a change before he’s out of his mind. So, it’s with all this tumbling around in his head that he gets up from his counter one afternoon, off to find his husband and disappoint him. 

He finds Aziraphale hunched over some old text, as usual, taking a close study of it through his glasses. Normally, he might come up behind him and embrace him, but having access to Aziraphale’s emotions during what will likely be an unpleasant conversation seems … intrusive? So, he sinks into a chair next to him instead. 

“Oh, Crowley! I didn’t hear you coming,” Aziraphale says with a smile and a quick glance up. “How’s your day, hmm?” 

“Well… I actually came over to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, turning and giving him full attention now. 

Crowley immediately hates himself for this entire thing and considers going right back to his boring counter, but there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. 

“I’ve just been wondering,” he starts, awkwardly rubbing the arm of the chair. “Would you be … would you be awfully disappointed if I decided not to sell music anymore? To do something else?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blinking. “I thought you were liking it?”

Crowley really wants to take his hands, but it’s the wrong moment. 

“It’s not that I _ don’t like _it…” he says, unable to find an end for the sentence. “I’m sorry. I really appreciate what you did for me, giving me a place here.”

“No apologies needed, dear. I’m pleased that you were willing to give it a go at all. What do you think you’d like to do instead?”

“I haven’t actually figured that out yet.”

“Well, take your time. If you want to close the counter, though, feel free.”

“Are you _ sure _you’re not disappointed?” Crowley asks, skeptical.

In response, Aziraphale gives him a look and holds out his hand. Crowley takes it in his, and their love streams are quickly connected—Aziraphale’s is bright and happy and unaffected and … _ oh_. 

Crowley raises his eyebrows. 

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale says, blushing a little and clearing his throat. “I was … reminiscing a bit. About our wedding night, you see. And now you’re here.”

“Well then,” Crowley says, standing and moving to sit across Aziraphale’s lap and kissing him.

“You know what you need?” Aziraphale asks while Crowley is trailing kisses down his neck. 

“Mmm, tell me,” Crowley says, humming against his skin, pleasantly surprised by where this conversation has led. 

Aziraphale laughs. “What you _ need _is an actual honeymoon.”

Crowley meets his eyes.

“We could travel together!” Aziraphale goes on. “Think of it. Paris, Venice, Barcelona. Wherever. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? And it would be a proper holiday for us.”

“Hmm, yeah. We could eat and fuck our way through the continent.”

“Oh, stop being vulgar,” Aziraphale scolds, smiling.

“You love it.”

“Does that mean you like the idea?”

“I do. But you set our course. I’d go anywhere with you, angel.”

///

In accordance with Crowley’s prediction, they do fall straight into bed when they arrive at their charming hotel in Venice, the first destination on Aziraphale’s list. Creating a romantic itinerary was even more fun than he anticipated, and he’s practically buzzing with excitement to rediscover beautiful places together. 

Afterward, they tumble out into the bustling city, meandering and soaking up the scenery. Aziraphale has long loved Venice, but it’s been a while since he visited, and he has to admit that being_ in love_ in Venice, walking with his arm linked through his husband’s, is especially wonderful. 

They take a break in the afternoon, enjoying gelato beside the glistening canal water. 

“Perhaps a gondola ride next?” Aziraphale asks without looking over.

“If you like. But I thought you were going to the basilica?”

“Oh, never mind that.”

“Why?”

Aziraphale gives him a look. “I want to stay together.”

“I’ll come in with you. You can carry me on your shoulders.”

“What? Don’t say that. It’s not just consecrated; it’s— Well, never mind. I’m not going in.”

Crowley discards his gelato cup and reaches over to take Aziraphale’s hand—his love is flowing strong and unwaveringly happy. 

“I want you to go, alright? I don’t want you to miss out on anything here. I don’t mind waiting. I’ll grab a drink.”

Aziraphale can hardly keep arguing when Crowley is being so sweet about it. And, to be honest, he would enjoy seeing St. Mark’s again. It generally renewed his spirit to step into places so full of love and faith; he’d never be able to shake that part of his true nature. 

“Alright,” he agrees, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “I’ll make it a quick visit.”

Stepping inside the church, he quickly forgets his previous hesitation. It’s every bit as breathtaking as he remembers, even packed full of tourists with camera phones. He loses himself to enjoying the magnificent architecture and gilded ceilings, all the while soaking in the feeling of entering a holy place so thoroughly revered. 

He’s admiring a mosaic of angels when he realizes the room has gone oddly quiet. Looking around, he finds that everyone else in the building—the tourists, clergy, staff—is frozen in place. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” comes a familiar voice.

He turns to discover Uriel standing next to him. Reflexively, he takes a step back.

“No need to run,” Uriel says in an unsettlingly friendly tone. “I’m just here to make a delivery. And to offer my congratulations.”

He registers now that she’s holding a scroll. 

“Your … what?”

“You’re being granted archangelship, Aziraphale. Congratulations.”

She offers him the scroll. He doesn’t take it. 

“I … don’t understand.”

“It took us a while to understand your strategy, but now that we do, we’re impressed with your results. You thwarted one of hell’s most accomplished demons. Set him on a path to doing good, to believing in love. It may not be what you were originally assigned, but you improvised. We’re finally giving you the recognition you deserve.”

Aziraphale is trying to make sense of this meeting. It’s obviously a ruse of some sort. He wants to run out of the church and make sure Crowley is alright. If heaven is keeping him preoccupied in here, it’s likely that Crowley is out there dealing with his own encounter. He wishes in an instant that they had never split up.

“First I’m condemned to die, then I’m called a traitor, and now I’m being ... promoted?”

“See for yourself,” she says, unrolling the paper. “It’s already been signed by all of us. It just needs your signature, and the process will begin.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops in spite of himself. Indeed, it’s a divine scroll bearing the official contract for archangelship, plus the glowing signatures of all current archangels. Gabriel’s is the largest, and even his cursive manages to look a bit passive-aggressive. 

In Aziraphale’s earlier years, he’d dreamed of this offer, and he’s surprised to find that a small part of him is reflexively honored at the notion even now. But everything has changed. The earth is his home. Crowley is his home. 

“Before you make your choice,” Uriel goes on. “You should know that as an archangel, you’d have the ability to save someone who’s fallen.”

“I … would?” Aziraphale asks, stunned again.

The only way he could ever possibly accept such an offer is if he knew that Crowley were safe. But it sounds too good to be true.  
  
“They would have to submit to full repentance and reintegration, but yes.”

“Oh. I see.”

Reintegration. There it is. The ultimate catch. Aziraphale is struck, for a moment, by the awful mental image of Crowley as a _ reintegrated _angel, empty behind the eyes, a shell of his former self, filing paperwork for eternity. It’s suddenly clear why they’ve offered this at all. Their final play to regain control.

“A former demon cannot be permitted to retain their memories in heaven,” she adds with some forced politeness. “You know that.”

“Yes, of course.”

For a fleeting and selfish moment, he wants to drop the scroll to the floor and turn away, to never mention a word of it to Crowley. But in the next, he questions himself. He’s nearly certain that Crowley would find no appeal in giving up his identity for a second chance at heaven. But how can he make that choice for him? How could he withhold this single opening for _ forgiveness _? Isn’t that a choice everyone should be able to make for themselves? Even if it would leave Aziraphale devastated? Maybe especially then. Yes, he has to tell him the truth. 

“The choice is in your hands, Aziraphale. I’ll leave you to think. When you’re ready, you need only sign.”

With that, she’s gone, and the gabble of the room picks up where it left off. 

Aziraphale rushes out of the building, tucking the scroll under his arm. Once he’s outside and safely removed from the holy grounds, he summons Crowley to his location. 

His husband appears before him and sinks to his knees, expression pained. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, moving to help him stand. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” comes his response, but it sounds like the wind has been knocked out of him. 

“I take it you had a visitor as well?”

“Something like that,” Crowley confirms. 

Aziraphale sighs and steels himself. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

///

After Aziraphale queues for the basilica, Crowley wanders beside the canals for a ways before he finds a cozy looking pub and turns in for a drink. To be honest, it feels natural to take this break in the day, no matter how much he’s enjoying carrying on like a married couple. Plus, he’d never rob Aziraphale of the chance to come out of a well-loved church practically glowing with happiness.

He finds a corner spot where he can put his feet up in an adjacent chair and orders a drink. Just as he’s having his first sip, an unfamiliar voice greets him.

“Hello, Crowley,” it says from somewhere above him.

It’s the woman on the TV who was previously reporting the weather forecast. Why the fuck did he choose a place with screens?

“Piss off,” he says, starting to stand. 

“No need to run off. No surprise attack this time, just a commendation. And a new assignment.”

“New assignment?” he scoffs. “Who are you? Did you miss the ‘get fucked’ memo?”

“Hell has done some reorganizing since you’ve been away,” she says with an odd smile. “I’m new at this part, and I can tell you that I’ve been … inspired by your work. If demons are allowed to be inspired. Anyway, really excellent job with the angel. Without your interference, he would have become one of the most powerful beings in heaven, did you know that? But you put a stop to it. I can’t tell you how much I admire that level of dedication.”

“How the hell would you even know—”

“Don’t interrupt. I haven’t reached your assignment yet. You’ve done well so far, but heaven has caught wind of your plan. They want him back. They’ll be offering Aziraphale archangelship any moment now. We need you to be sure he doesn’t accept. That would be disastrous for us. We need to keep him neutral. You understand. So, go and do what you do best!”

“You’re full of shit,” he says, raising his glass to the screen.

She laughs. “I suspected you might need some convincing. Fortunately, we can show you. Can we show him? Is it ready? Yes, it’s ready. Alright. See for yourself.”

The screen goes to static for a second, and then a new picture pops on—a motion-blurred golden ceiling. The camera somewhat rights itself, zooming in on a man with snow-white hair. Aziraphale comes into focus, and he’s facing someone. The person is unrolling a scroll of some sort, and Aziraphale’s jaw drops. He moves to take the paper, still looking awestruck. Crowley’s stomach sinks, but he keeps his expression blank.

Abruptly, the TV goes gray again and the weather woman is back. “As I said, it’s already happened. You just need to be sure he declines the offer, by any means necessary.”

With that, she’s gone, and the weather report has resumed. Crowley stares at his glass for a moment, a dark pit twisting his gut. It dawns on him that they showed their hand by filming Aziraphale in the church—an obviously coordinated effort between heaven and hell. With an even more obvious goal.

But he also saw Aziraphale’s face. And he knows him well enough to know that he wasn’t faking that reaction. He wants to believe that it was completely out of context, that he’s misunderstood, that Aziraphale would never even consider rejoining the heavenly hosts no matter what they offered. But something tells him he can’t be so sure. If the offer is real and Aziraphale wants it, if even a small part of him wants it, Crowley could never take that chance away from him. They’ve been living with the assumption that Aziraphale was cut off from heaven forever, and now that’s no longer true.

This is what hell wants him to be thinking right now, he knows. This is what demons do. They plant seeds of doubt, which grow and fester into poisonous thoughts that infect people’s minds. And the most powerful doubts, the ones that grew best, were always those watered with partial truths; he knew that better than most. The things the demon in the TV had said about him were very well angled, he had to admit. Hadn’t he deliberately steered Aziraphale off course? Away from the path of righteousness, in a way? Hasn’t that been his purpose all along? Isn’t he still just the serpent with an irresistible apple? 

He feels like he’s aged a few centuries when he’s suddenly transported outside, unprepared to stand, and he stumbles to his knees in front of Aziraphale. 

“Crowley! Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley manages to mutter as Aziraphale helps him right himself.

“I take it you had a visitor as well?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley shrugs, but he sees that Aziraphale is clutching the scroll protectively under one arm, and the sight of it feels like a knife in his heart.

“Something like that.”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Aziraphale says, visibly nervous.

The knife plunges deeper.

///

They’re back in their hotel room now, and Aziraphale has told Crowley everything that transpired in the church, opening the scroll to show him. Crowley has been sitting silently the whole time, barely looking at him while listening. 

“Well. Say something.”

Crowley runs a hand over his hair and stands. “I have no interest in thine holy lobotomy, but thanks for the generous offer.”

His tone is a little bitter, but Aziraphale pays it no mind. It’s an uncomfortable topic for him, too.

“Of course. I thought not. Good. That settles it, then,” he says, moving to tear the paper. 

“Wait,” Crowley says, lunging forward and pushing his hands away. 

Crowley touches the document in the process and his hand comes away steaming. 

“You mustn’t touch it!” Aziraphale says, stating the obvious and grabbing his husband’s hand to heal it. 

He notices, then, that Crowley’s love stream has been reduced to a small trickle. He’s never pulled it back that much before now. Aziraphale gives him a look, but Crowley isn’t meeting his eyes.

“You should do it,” Crowley says solemnly. “Take their offer. You deserve it.”

“Deserve it?” Aziraphale asks with a nervous chuckle. “I hardly think I’m even qualified—” 

“You are. You’re the best. Brighter than the lot of them. They need someone like you.”

Aziraphale is watching him more closely now, more curiously. Crowley isn’t behaving like himself. He’s fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. Aziraphale goes to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“And leave you behind? Never. You’re my husband.”

“They’re just rings, angel.”

Now his alarm bells are going off. 

“Oh. You don’t mean that. Someone really got inside your head, didn’t they? What did they say to you?”

Crowley sighs. “It doesn’t matter, alright? Because that’s real, and it would be the best possible thing for you, and you should take it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go blurry with tears. “Crowley. Stop it. _ You’re _the best possible thing for me.”

“Am I?” Crowley says, throwing his arms out. “I can’t promise you that kind of security. Being locked out may have been worth saving the world, but now you can have both.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Aziraphale asks, grabbing Crowley’s hand again, holding it tight. “Let me feel you.”

Crowley pulls his hand away, shaking his head, and Aziraphale can only look on sadly for a moment.

“Don’t you see that this is precisely what they wanted?” Aziraphale asks. “All of them. To drive a wedge between us.”

“It’s always been a game to them. But they’re handing you a golden ticket back to heaven! You know what you need to do.”

“Yes, I surely do.”

Aziraphale turns back to the bed and picks up the scroll once more, holding it with both hands, quickly tearing it in two. Sparks fly out of the page when it begins to separate, and the full burst of divine energy blows a hole through the roof and knocks them both on their backs, scattering furniture and sending white feathers flying from a pillow. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, scrambling to his feet and coughing. “Crowley, are you alright?”

He finds Crowley crawling out from under the pile of rubble that was once a dresser and sinks down next to him, both panting. 

“Why’d you do that?” Crowley asks. 

“Well, I didn’t actually know it would explode. Sorry.”

“No. Why’d you destroy it?”

“Because I choose you,” Aziraphale says, pulling him into his arms. “I’ll always choose you.”

Crowley sinks into him, limp, and Aziraphale only barely hears when he says, “I’m not worth it.”

He’s confused until he feels Crowley’s love stream, no longer held back. Where once was a radiant flow of bright love, it’s now so deeply wounded as to be split down the middle with sorrow. A strangled sob escapes Aziraphale’s throat. He realizes with sudden, horrible clarity that for this whole exchange, Crowley already believed he’d lost him. Aziraphale sees, now, how thoroughly they’ve misunderstood each other—he felt a moral obligation to talk to Crowley about the offer before making a final decision, but putting it forth as a possibility at all has deeply hurt his husband. With the benefit of hindsight, he’s filled with regret.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says through his tears, holding him tight. “No, Crowley. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley doesn’t speak, but he returns the embrace as Aziraphale’s love starts to go to work to repair the damage. 

“Darling, my darling,” Aziraphale whispers. “It’s you. It’s always you. Until the end of time, I choose you.”

///

_ Crowley, listen to me (to me). It would destroy me to lose you (lose you). But I couldn’t make the choice without you (without you). _

Crowley can hear Aziraphale speaking, but it sounds like he’s listening from under water. 

_ Do you hear me? I’m here, my love. I’ll never leave you. _

In Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley falls into himself. He’s somewhere else, somewhere that feels like outer space. His awareness of his surroundings is gone, and all that’s left is Aziraphale’s love flowing into him in an endless stream, pouring into the great gash inside him and rebuilding it. It’s so much, it’s so many tiny connections and one enormous one, that he’s detached from everything but this. Sometimes, he has a vague awareness of a voice, or the warmth of an embrace, but those things are happening somewhere else.

Believing that he would lose Aziraphale—that he had to let him go—cracked Crowley open more than he knew, more than he could feel until the love came rushing into him to mend it. And now it flows not only into the new wound, but finds the old ones as well, where they’ve all been open anew, every trace of uncertainty and self-loathing that he suppressed over the years. It feels never-ending, like he’ll be stuck here for eternity, but Aziraphale’s love is bright and beautiful and unceasing, and now that it’s healing him, he needs it, this and only this, more than he’s ever needed anything. 

It’s only after their united love has been flowing at full, restored strength for some time that Crowley remembers how to open his eyes. 

He finds himself resting against Aziraphale’s bare chest and moves to sit up slowly, his vision hazy. 

“There you are,” comes Aziraphale’s warm voice. “Welcome back.”

Crowley rubs his eyes, squinting at the strange bed they’re in—so large, with so many pillows. 

“Where—?” he starts.

“Our bedroom in London. Just embellished a bit for an extended stay.”

“How long?” he asks with a start. He can’t tell if it’s been a few hours or five hundred years. 

“Forty days,” Aziraphale says with a slight smile. “Well, forty one today. How about that?”

Crowley stretches his neck and then realizes belatedly that they’re in matching silk pyjama pants. He pats Aziraphale’s leg. “Nice jammies.”

Aziraphale laughs at that, eyes glistening. “Ah. How I’ve missed you.”

It hits Crowley, then, that while he was flying through the cosmos, Aziraphale really lived out forty full days in this room with a comatose version of his husband. He pulls him to his lips at once, and Aziraphale sighs in the kiss. Crowley draws him into a tight embrace, then, clutching him to his chest, grateful to be here together, grateful for everything he is. 

After the healing Aziraphale’s love has provided, Crowley can recall his past actions with new clarity. He misunderstood so much that now feels obvious. How Aziraphale had approached the offer from heaven from a place of selfless love and nothing more. How trivial it was to think that Aziraphale’s happiness would ever hinge on Crowley’s day job. How straightforward and simple it was for Aziraphale to risk his life to rescue Crowley from the control of the wraith. And now, when Crowley needed him most, how Aziraphale had stayed with him and would _ always _stay. 

“Aziraphale,” he says softly, leaning back to face him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“I know,” Aziraphale responds, nodding. “Your heart was already broken. I’m sorry I couldn’t see it.”

Crowley kisses him again, because there are no more words to say, nothing that could possibly compare to what Aziraphale has done for him. And he can feel how much Aziraphale needs him, now, albeit in a simpler way, but in a way he’s eager to give, and they’re swiftly making love. With the renewed strength of their love stream, their glow has more than doubled in power, now, so as to be blinding, and Crowley is glad to be back in his body, feeling his husband move in him, pressing his lips to warm skin, feeling everything. It occurs to him, also, that this is now the third time heaven and hell have tried and failed to separate them, leaving them even stronger than before. And for the first time in his life, he is filled with utmost, glorious clarity that no power in the universe will _ ever _separate them.

///

By the time they’re out of bed and back in normal clothes, it’s only late afternoon. Aziraphale gathers some supplies, and they’re off to the park for a picnic and some much-needed fresh air. Stepping into the sunlight and cool autumn breeze is so deliciously refreshing that Aziraphale stops for a moment just to let it wash over him, listening to the sounds of the city, alive and well right where they left it. 

He can tell that Crowley feels renewed, as well, as they walk hand-in-hand, love flowing solid and bright. He’s quiet, but he’s looking around as if he’s taking everything in with new eyes. New eyes behind the same dark sunglasses, but still. Aziraphale wonders if perhaps he does feel different or changed on a fundamental level after the healing. The heartbreak had reopened so many old scars, so many painful memories, and Aziraphale had willed his love to find and seal them all. How that will change Crowley as a person, he doesn’t quite know. But he’s eager to find out. 

They find a charming spot by a tree and unfold their blanket, laying out plates and snacks. Aziraphale is eyeing the grapes and cheese when Crowley drops down next to him, slings his arm around him, and takes up the fruit to feed it to him. 

Aziraphale laughs and accepts the grape. Crowley feeds him another one. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asks lovingly.

“I’m having,” Crowley says, eating a grape of his own, “a picnic.”

Perhaps they’ve rejoined society too hastily, Aziraphale reflects privately. “Are you alright?” 

“_Alright _? Angel, I am full. To the BRIM. With _ your _ divine love. I have never felt better…” Crowley says, trailing off and glancing around at the park. “Are you this happy _ all _ the time?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Not all the time, of course. But when I’m with you.”

Crowley leans over and kisses him, then, and it’s not a quick peck. Aziraphale laughs at first; they wouldn’t normally make out in public… But what the hell? He kisses back, holding Crowley’s neck, pulling back only when their love stream starts to feel more like fireworks.

Without missing a beat, Crowley resumes hand-feeding him and watching him eat. 

After their lunch, they’re leaning against the tree together, Crowley angled against the bark with Aziraphale resting lower, nestled against Crowley’s chest and enveloped in his arms. A few times he thinks Crowley has fallen asleep, but then he starts running his fingers across Aziraphale’s back in an idle way that feels wonderful. 

“Have you thought anymore about what you might like to do,” Aziraphale asks, “instead of selling music?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I don’t know. I might keep selling music.”

“Until you find something better.”

“I don’t know if I need to replace it,” Crowley says. “Maybe just … supplement it. Add something new to the mix.”

“Hmm. You know, I’ve toyed with the idea of adding in a tea and pastry bar.”

Crowley laughs, but Aziraphale isn’t really sure why. And then he’s moving to sit up, so Aziraphale sits up to give him space, and Crowley is on him again, kissing his neck and earlobe. 

“Crowley,” he laughs, feeling heat rush to his face. “We’re in the park.”

Crowley kisses his cheek once and then stops. “What about plants?”

“Plants? Oh, in the shop?”

Crowley nods with a shrug. 

Aziraphale gives it some thought, letting a picture form in his mind. When it does, he gasps. “You’ve given me a wonderful idea.”

///

**A.Z. Fell & Co — reviews**

_ Lizzy B. - 2 years ago - 3 stars_

> Odd little bookshop that’s been there forever. Not really well-organized, but such an interesting hodgepodge of vintage books. Worth a look when you’re in the area.

_ Patrick L. - 7 months ago - 5 stars_

> Music counter in here is a hidden gem. Best selection for rare and vintage albums outside of Camden. Top bloke runs the counter but I’m afraid he may be sacked soon since he keeps saying his register is down and giving me music for free… 

_ Sheena M. - 4 months ago - 5 stars_

> Lovely!!! This is my new favorite tea bar but if you’re in the area you simply must go in for the atmosphere. You’ll feel like you’re lounging in a little jungle of plants and books and they’ve even got string lights overhead! Brilliant! 

_ Mary D. - 2 months ago - 4 stars_

> Really nice spot for tea and biscuits but soooo crowded so often now. I never even went in when in when it was just a bookshop lol. But now it’s got a wicked romantic vibe. If a date brought me here and we sat on the cushions with the books and plants and lights all over I’d probably shag them just for having good taste!!! Also, I heard the old goth bloke who works there telling a potted tree “you’re gonna be the most perfect fucking ficus in all of London.” Made my whole night.

_ Roger B. - 1 month ago - 1 star_

> Disappointed…. I was keen to pop in here to get the odd rare music album or book, which I think make unique gifts, but now it’s full of pretentious 20-somethings instagramming their hibiscus tea. Pass. 

_ Meredith R. - 2 weeks ago - 5 stars_

> EXTREMELY rude for this place to be closed while the owners are on a late honeymoon or what have you! Come back!!!! I need my hibiscus tea!!!!!! :(

**Author's Note:**

> Review section inspired by multiple hilarious bookshop review posts on tumblr! <3


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